


Staring In

by Callisto



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode Related, Gen, Season/Series 03, episode s03e11 Mystery Spot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-07
Updated: 2011-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-17 17:52:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callisto/pseuds/Callisto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“He who fights against monsters should see to it that he does not become a monster in the process. And when you stare persistently into an abyss, the abyss also stares into you.”<br/>--Beyond Good and Evil, "Fourth Part: Maxims and Interludes,"--</i></p><p>Sam finally tells Dean about those missing six months.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Staring In

Sam went as far as the open front door of their motel room. He sat on the step of it, took a swig of the beer in his hand, and decided that the evening was nice enough to wait for Dean out there. The parking lot was practically empty, the bite of an early Connecticut spring felt good after a long day in the car, and right now he had no place to be--and because of Dean being an asshole--nothing to do. Well, nothing new to do. He took a deep breath, settled onto the step a little more, and tried not to feel the pull of the laptop and all those open tabs behind him.

About forty-five minutes later, a familiar growl got louder and Sam tensed. He had no idea how this was going to play out. Two more beers seemed as good a way to start as any, and by the time he got back to the step with them, Dean was walking over with a large pizza box in his hands.

If Dean minded sitting outside on the steps, he didn’t say. He just sat down next to Sam, flipped the box open on the ground between them and took the first slice. Sam handed him a beer, got a grunt around a mouthful of hot cheese, and nothing more was said until the box was empty. Dean disappeared inside soon after and Sam wondered if he should follow. Then a cold bottle nudged his right shoulder. He took it and Dean settled down next to him again.

Another minute of silence passed.

“Thought you might be doing this in a bar tonight,” said Sam, studying the beer label on his bottle.

Dean exhaled abruptly. “If only. You know, I counted. Twelve churches and one pansy-ass bar called ‘Milly’s’ in a ten minute stretch. Should be a law or something.”

Sam smiled at him for that. “What? Like the number of churches has to match the number of—”

“You hit me, Sam.”

Dean didn't look Sam's way when he said it, and he told him in the same conversational tone he’d told him about the churches and the bar. Sam watched him tilt his head back and take a long swallow of beer.

In profile, Sam could see the bruise starting to discolor Dean’s left cheek. It disappeared into shadow when Dean turned to face him, jaw set.

“You hit me,” he said again.

“Yeah, well you threw my book out the window.”

“I threw your...? Christ, Sam, I must have dumped a dozen books in the trash this past six months. You never fucking hit me before!”

“That was different!”

“How? How is it different, Sam?

“Because that was before you died!” It hung there, out and loud in the air. And Dean snapped his gaze back to his beer bottle. They had rarely spoken about Broward County. Dean knew about the six months, and he’d seen the scar across Sam’s ribs, but he seemed to have no memory of anything other than an Asia song and a piss-poor mystery spot, which suited Sam just fine. Until the asshole did things like throw an Aramaic prayer book out of the Impala’s window and _smile at him_. Sam jabbed the hand holding his beer into Dean’s chest. It took a second or two to get his breathing and his voice back under control. “You left me to do this life of ours by myself, Dean.”

“Sam...”

Just like that Dean’s anger was gone, replaced by something that wanted to shy away, that wanted Sam to shut up and let sleeping dogs lie.

But Dean had to hear it now, because if Dean got rid of one more thing that might save him, that might save Sam from the life he’d glimpsed and lived without his brother... He had a sudden sharp image of himself, on his knees in the dirt somewhere, head back and howling over yet another trashed manuscript. And then he saw Dean, bound and locked in the Impala’s trunk and allowed out only to eat and piss from that point on.

Sam shivered. Dean didn’t get it yet, but he would.

“Sam, I keep telling you, you don’t have to hunt alone when I’m... After. We all need the help sometimes; it’s not a big fucking deal. Hell, it’s why I came and got you after Dad ditched me, and I’ve already talked to Bobby about—”

“I killed Bobby.”

He heard Dean spit beer back into his bottle.

“Yeah, I mean, I thought he was the Trickster at the time. And he was, but I wasn’t a hundred percent sure, Dean. Not a hundred percent. And I still stuck a stake right through him from behind and bled him like a pig. You wanna know why?”

Like a deer in headlights, Dean wiped his chin and nodded.

Sam thought about the word before he rolled it off his tongue, long and seductive. “Revenge. Even just the chance of it. Man, revenge was all I could think of for those six months, Dean. All I did was track the sonovabitch and hunt along the way. I tacked up intel on the walls and pored over it every night until my eyes bled. I kept every weapon spotless, ate when I fainted, slept like a goddamn soldier, and used a mirror and a bottle of Jack to take out and stitch up anything that cut me.” He swallowed, fighting to keep his voice steady. Dean was motionless beside him, eyes riveted on Sam’s.

Sam softened his voice. “You know how many vamps I took out along the way? How many spirits? How many ghouls, werewolves? I don’t know, Dean. Hundreds. Do you know how many people I spent time with outside of a hunt? How many times I saw Bobby before I drove a stake through his heart? Not one, Dean. Not. One.” He stood up, a little shaky with the urge to make Dean fucking _see_. Once and for all.

“So don’t you burn or trash things that might save you. Don’t you dare.”

He crouched back down behind Dean, a hand on his brother’s right shoulder to keep them both in place while he said his last.

“I will get you out of this deal, Dean. And you will let me.”

He took a steadying breath and wrapped his right arm high around Dean’s chest, holding him close even as Dean flinched away. “I survived Jess and I survived Dad.” He kissed the back of Dean’s bowed head, sudden and fierce, something he’d never done before. His voice cracked on the last, whispered right into his brother’s left ear. “But I don’t like who I am when I survive _you_ , Dean.”

He let his hand slide free, let Dean shoot to his feet and rock there, with his green eyes wide, his breathing harsh.

Exhausted, Sam could say nothing more. He merely got to his feet, nodded once, and went back inside. He wanted to retreat before Dean could turn that unshakeable brand of Winchester self-loathing and loyalty on him, the same brand Dean had been turning on him ever since Sam had hit the mud with his spine torn in two.

Sam still hadn’t forgiven his father for that particular inheritance.

 

He woke up an indeterminate time later with Dean’s hands on him, fumbling at his T-shirt.

“Dean?”

It was dark, and he’d fallen asleep on the bed fully dressed. The smell of sour whiskey and ash hit him as his brother stumbled closer.

“What the—?”

“Show me. Fuckin’ show me again, Sam.”

A glass on the nightstand went flying.

“Dean, you’re drunk. Come on... whatever it is we’ll look at it in the morning. Just take it easy.”

Dean found the light switch to the bedside lamp and the room was suddenly flooded with a burnt orange glow.

Sam blinked and struggled to sit up. Dean looked terrible, eyes hollow and over-bright, and the bruise was fully out now across his cheekbone. He was on his knees next to Sam’s bed.

“Show me,” Dean said again, quieter, his eyes impossibly liquid.

Sam understood and lifted his T-shirt. It shouldn’t even be there. When he’d flipped back, the Trickster had wiped clean every other mark and scar but this one. A final jest, no doubt. He tried not to flinch when Dean traced the jagged pattern across his ribs with an ice cold finger.

“Jesus,” said Dean, and Sam wasn’t sure if he heard reverence or revulsion.

“Dean...”

“Okay, Sammy. Okay.”

“What okay?” They were both whispering.

Dean looked straight at him, sober as a judge.

“Save me.”

******


End file.
